CHELSEA, _May_ 24, 1711.
MORNING. Once in my life the number of my letters and of the day of the
month is the same; that’s lucky, boys; that’s a sign that things will
meet, and that we shall make a figure together. What, will you still
have the impudence to say London, England, because I say Dublin, Ireland?
Is there no difference between London and Dublin, saucyboxes? I have
sealed up my letter, and am going to town. Morrow, sirrahs.—At night. I
dined with the Secretary to-day; we sat down between five and six. Mr.
Harley’s patent passed this morning: he is now Earl of Oxford, Earl
Mortimer, and Lord Harley of Wigmore Castle. My letter was sealed, or I
would have told you this yesterday; but the public news may tell it you.
The Queen, for all her favour, has kept a rod {224} for him in her closet
this week; I suppose he will take it from her, though, in a day or two.
At eight o’clock this evening it rained prodigiously, as it did from
five; however, I set out, and in half-way the rain lessened, and I got
home, but tolerably wet; and this is the first wet walk I have had in a
month’s time that I am here but, however, I got to bed, after a short
visit to Atterbury.
25. It rained this morning, and I went to town by water; and Ford and I
dined with Mr. Lewis by appointment. I ordered Patrick to bring my gown
and periwig to Mr. Lewis, because I designed to go to see Lord Oxford,
and so I told the dog; but he never came, though I stayed an hour longer
than I appointed; so I went in my old gown, and sat with him two hours,
but could not talk over some business I had with him; so he has desired
me to dine with him on Sunday, and I must disappoint the Secretary. My
lord set me down at a coffee-house, where I waited for the Dean of
Carlisle’s chariot to bring me to Chelsea; for it has rained prodigiously
all this afternoon. The Dean did not come himself, but sent me his
chariot, which has cost me two shillings to the coachman; and so I am got
home, and Lord knows what is become of Patrick. I think I must send him
over to you; for he is an intolerable rascal. If I had come without a
gown, he would have served me so, though my life and preferment should
have lain upon it: and I am making a livery for him will cost me four
pounds; but I will order the tailor to-morrow to stop till further
orders. My Lord Oxford can’t yet abide to be called “my lord”; and when
I called him “my lord,” he called me “Dr. Thomas Swift,” {225a} which he
always does when he has a mind to tease me. By a second hand, he
proposed my being his chaplain, which I by a second hand excused; but we
had no talk of it to-day: but I will be no man’s chaplain alive. But I
must go and be busy.
26. I never saw Patrick till this morning, and that only once, for I
dressed myself without him; and when I went to town he was out of the
way. I immediately sent for the tailor, and ordered him to stop his hand
in Patrick’s clothes till further orders. Oh, if it were in Ireland, I
should have turned him off ten times ago; and it is no regard to him, but
myself, that has made me keep him so long. Now I am afraid to give the
rogue his clothes. What shall I do? I wish MD were here to entreat for
him, just here at the bed’s side. Lady Ashburnham {225b} has been
engaging me this long time to dine with her, and I set to-day apart for
it; and whatever was the mistake, she sent me word she was at dinner and
undressed, but would be glad to see me in the afternoon: so I dined with
Mrs. Vanhomrigh, and would not go to see her at all, in a huff. My fine
Florence is turning sour with a vengeance, and I have not drunk half of
it. As I was coming home to-night, Sir Thomas Mansel and Tom Harley
{225c} met me in the Park, and made me walk with them till nine, like
unreasonable whelps; so I got not here till ten: but it was a fine
evening, and the foot-path clean enough already after this hard rain.
27. Going this morning to town, I saw two old lame fellows, walking to a
brandy-shop, and when they got to the door, stood a long time
complimenting who should go in first. Though this be no jest to tell, it
was an admirable one to see. I dined to-day with my Lord Oxford and the
ladies, the new Countess, and Lady Betty, {226a} who has been these three
days a lady born. My lord left us at seven, and I had no time to speak
to him about some affairs; but he promises in a day or two we shall dine
alone; which is mighty likely, considering we expect every moment that
the Queen will give him the staff, and then he will be so crowded he will
be good for nothing: for aught I know he may have it to-night at Council.
28. I had a petition sent me t’other day from one Stephen Gernon,
setting forth that he formerly lived with Harry Tenison, {226b} who gave
him an employment of gauger, and that he was turned out after Harry’s
death, and came for England, and is now starving, or, as he expresses it,
_that the staff of life has been of late a stranger to his appetite_.
To-day the poor fellow called, and I knew him very well, a young slender
fellow with freckles in his face: you must remember him; he waited at
table as a better sort of servant. I gave him a crown, and promised to
do what I could to help him to a service, which I did for Harry Tenison’s
memory. It was bloody hot walking to-day, and I was so lazy I dined
where my new gown was, at Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s, and came back like a fool,
and the Dean of Carlisle has sat with me till eleven. Lord Oxford has
not the staff yet.
29. I was this morning in town by ten, though it was shaving-day, and
went to the Secretary about some affairs, then visited the Duke and
Duchess of Ormond; but the latter was dressing to go out, and I could not
see her. My Lord Oxford had the staff given him this morning; so now I
must call him Lord Oxford no more, but Lord Treasurer: I hope he will
stick there: this is twice he has changed his name this week; and I heard
to-day in the City (where I dined) that he will very soon have the
Garter.—Pr’ythee, do not you observe how strangely I have changed my
company and manner of living? I never go to a coffee-house; you hear no
more of Addison, Steele, Henley, Lady Lucy, Mrs. Finch, {227a} Lord
Somers, Lord Halifax, etc. I think I have altered for the better. Did I
tell you the Archbishop of Dublin has writ me a long letter of a squabble
in your town about choosing a Mayor, and that he apprehended some censure
for the share he had in it? {227b} I have not heard anything of it here;
but I shall not be always able to defend him. We hear your Bishop
Hickman is dead; {227c} but nobody here will do anything for me in
Ireland; so they may die as fast or slow as they please.—Well, you are
constant to your deans, and your Stoyte, and your Walls. Walls will have
her tea soon; Parson Richardson is either going or gone to Ireland, and
has it with him. I hear Mr. Lewis has two letters for me: I could not
call for them to-day, but will to-morrow; and perhaps one of them may be
from our little MD, who knows, man? who can tell? Many a more unlikely
thing has happened.—Pshaw, I write so plaguy little, I can hardly see it
myself. _Write bigger_, _sirrah_ {227d} Presto. No, but I won’t. Oh,
you are a saucy rogue, Mr. Presto, you are so impudent. Come, dear
rogues, let Presto go to sleep; I have been with the Dean, and ’tis near
twelve.
30. I am so hot and lazy after my morning’s walk, that I loitered at
Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s, where my best gown and periwig are, and out of mere
listlessness dine there very often; so I did to-day; but I got little
MD’s letter, N. 15 (you see, sirrahs, I remember to tell the number),
from Mr. Lewis, and I read it in a closet they lend me at Mrs. Van’s; and
I find Stella is a saucy rogue and a great writer, and can write finely
still when her hand is in, and her pen good. When I came here to-night,
I had a mighty mind to go swim after I was cool, for my lodging is just
by the river; and I went down with only my nightgown and slippers on at
eleven, but came up again; however, one of these nights I will venture.
31. I was so hot this morning with my walk, that I resolve to do so no
more during this violent burning weather. It is comical that now we
happen to have such heat to ripen the fruit there has been the greatest
blast that was ever known, and almost all the fruit is despaired of. I
dined with Lord Shelburne: Lady Kerry and Mrs. Pratt are going to
Ireland. I went this evening to Lord Treasurer, and sat about two hours
with him in mixed company; he left us, and went to Court, and carried two
staves with him, so I suppose we shall have a new Lord Steward or
Comptroller to-morrow; I smoked that State secret out by that accident.
I will not answer your letter yet, sirrahs; no I won’t, madam.
June 1. I wish you a merry month of June. I dined again with the Vans
and Sir Andrew Fountaine. I always give them a flask of my Florence,
which now begins to spoil, but it is near an end. I went this afternoon
to Mrs. Vedeau’s, and brought away Madam Dingley’s parchment and letter
of attorney. Mrs. Vedeau tells me she has sent the bill a fortnight ago.
I will give the parchment to Ben Tooke, and you shall send him a letter
of attorney at your leisure, enclosed to Mr. Presto. Yes, I now think
your mackerel is full as good as ours, which I did not think formerly. I
was bit about two staves, for there is no new officer made to-day. This
letter will find you still in Dublin, I suppose, or at Donnybrook, or
losing your money at Walls’ (how does she do?).